


Duet

by lindoreda



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Cat Myrtle, Classical Music, Fluff, HRBB14, M/M, Musicians, One Shot, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 22:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2790323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindoreda/pseuds/lindoreda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Composing classical music has always been Bilbo's dream, but it's never worked out the way he intended. Now, middle-aged and desperate, he's beginning to wonder if he'll ever make his mark on the music world. Enter Gandalf, with a grumpy harpist in tow, and the task of writing a piece for him. It might just be what he needs to get through his writer's block... if he doesn't kill Thorin first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duet

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little different this time! This is my entry for the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang, for Kurosmind's modern musicians au! It's definitely one of the longer one shots I've actually finished, and as someone who played in band for a long time, it was nice to use some of that. That said, I play flute, not harp, so I had to extrapolate some things, and I've been informed by my music major friends that auditions are generally blind to prevent what Thorin's dealing with, so this is hardly representative of the real world. Also, I did not have a specific song in mind for the piece Bilbo's working on, so you're not missing any hints or anything. Enjoy!

There were times when Bilbo Baggins remembered the fate of Mozart, who lived fast and died young, a rockstar before rock had been invented. It seemed almost laughable, the way someone blessed with that kind of composing skill could just throw it away, denying the world of decades more of his genius (ignoring of course his more perverted ditties). And yet, despite his sudden and ignoble end, or perhaps because of it, even the musically ignorant knew the name of Mozart. How many classical composers before or after then could claim that level of notoriety? And they had all been beaten by a boy who wrote songs about farts and sexual acts.

It was probably unseemly to be jealous of a dead 20 something, but on the harder days Bilbo just couldn’t bring himself to care. He was a good composer. He was! Sure, he’d done a few corporate jingles here and there, but who hadn’t? There was no shame in needing to eat, or paying the rent on time. Going to college for any kind of music theory was not very profitable without doing at least a little selling out. His life was comfortable now, and he made enough in royalties that he could focus on more personal projects for a while before writing away another piece of his soul. But of course, every time in his life that he’d been able to focus on what he wanted to write, no one wanted to play it, and he had to go back to jingles before long.

Bilbo lived in fear that he would die at a ripe old age, having had every opportunity to put his music out there, and no one would know the name of Bilbo Baggins except for his cat. It was true, classical music wasn’t exactly in vogue at the moment, but he wasn’t going to make a name for himself writing jingles, that was for sure. People would only know he was responsible for them when they wrote his obituary, and then people who cared would reminisce about their favorite jingles. But none of that did him any good now, while he was alive and had bills to pay. He and Myrtle had to eat, after all.

Still, he never really felt like a productive composer during these periods where he could do what he wanted. There were no deadlines, no advertising executives offering feedback on whether the tune really fit the image they were going for. It was just him, and his piano, until some other need or want called. What he really needed, Bilbo abruptly decided, was someone to take a look at his work, and see if he was going in the right direction. Surely that was the only thing that made his jingles successful, and his classical pieces less so. He had always been very private about his unfinished pieces, which perhaps explained why there were so many of them.

With all this in mind, it was only natural that Gandalf would call, and offer his services without any kind of prompting, or even an invitation. Old family friend that he was, Gandalf seemed to know exactly when his help was needed, even if Bilbo might disagree. It had always been that way, and Bilbo had given up trying to fight it.

“Something told me you might like some company about now,” Gandalf admitted. “You never go out during these composing periods, and it cannot be good for you.”

“Well, putting aside whether or not it is good for me,” (it was an old argument, and not one Bilbo wanted to have on the phone), “I’ve hit a bit of a block with my composing,” he admitted. “Would you mind terribly-”

“Oh, not at all, not at all,” Gandalf interrupted him cheerfully. “In fact, I believe I know just the thing. Shall we say, tomorrow at two o’clock?”

Gandalf always knew ‘just the thing,’ and Bilbo knew from experience that those worlds heralded trouble like nothing else. Just in case, he did a bit of tidying up, and put away the more breakable china.

* * *

 

Thorin Durinson hadn’t known the first time he touched a harp that he was walking down a difficult road. All he had thought at the time was that the craftsmanship of the instrument was beautiful, and so the sound it produced must be equally so. He’d plucked at the strings cautiously, with a child’s soft fingers. He wasn’t allowed in grandfather’s workshop, but the hypnotic sounds he’d heard through the walls on occasion were too tempting. Only he and the harp had existed in the moment, until grandfather returned and found him.

Shockingly, Thror wasn’t angry to find his eldest grandchild playing with one of his creations. He saw the gentle way Thorin handled it, so unlike the usual way of young boys with delicate things. If he had watched the way Thorin held his baby sister, he wouldn’t have been so surprised, but Thror rarely left his workshop. He almost regretted it as he taught Thorin how to play the harp, and got to know the boy better.

Thror died before Thorin reached adulthood, leaving his grandson with a beautiful instrument, a love of music, and burning desire to live up to his grandfather’s expectations. He did not know until entering a conservatory that the harp, like the flute, was considered a feminine instrument, and other men would look down on him for playing it. Nor did he care once he found out. His fellow harpists found him serious, and a bit rough around the edges, but a powerful harpist with a gift for evoking feeling, and that was all that mattered. If by dismissing the jibes of a few young men he made himself enemies who would grow to be powerful, well, skill always won out in the end.

Classical music was not an area that made a lot of people rich, or even comfortable. Thorin knew this before leaving school, but reality was a little harder to swallow. He knew that image always played a factor in job interviews, but he had thought auditions would be different. Skill was skill after all. Yet, his career had come and gone in a flash, with few enough major jobs that he found himself living with his sister, unable to pay his own bills.

“Have you considered being easier to work with?” Frerin would say after a bad audition, sympathetic but always looking for what Thorin had done wrong.

“I am always professional at auditions,” he would reply coolly, to which Frerin would raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

Thorin knew Frerin was partially right. They had an image in their heads when auditioning people, and he didn’t particularly fit it. That was true in many industries. If he’d gone into business, or something similar, doubtless he’d have advantages. But he’d never been the one to pick an easy road, and his proud dismissal of the men who had initially laughed at him had not been without consequences. Solo harpists were commonly hired for weddings, and if the rich and influential made it clear that they would never hire him for that, no one else would be tempted to do the same.

In the end, he’d been forced to make a decision. His grandfather has also taught him to make various instruments, and he’d been forced to do so to make money here and there. Through some miracle (and possibly connections of his grandfather’s, but he chose to ignore that), he’d been invited to be a soloist at an upcoming symphony performance, while the symphony took a quick breather before a long piece. If, after that performance, he was still unofficially blacklisted, he would shift his career focus to making rather than playing instruments. The income would still be unstable, but at least he wouldn’t be a drain on his sister any longer. There would be income, which was more than he had right now, and his image would cease to be a problem, anyway. He could still be close to the music.

There was only one problem with Thorin’s grand last ditch effort: he couldn’t decide on a song to play. Nothing seemed right for the occasion. Considering that it could very well be his last public performance, he needed the best possible piece to go out on. He had old favorites of course, but they weren’t special enough. People had heard him play them, and somehow not been impressed. He searched for weeks, and then started getting nervous.

That of course was when the organizer of this whole affair, Gandalf, decided to check in and see if Thorin had chosen a piece yet so that it could go in the program book. Thorin was fully prepared to bluff his way through the entire conversation. It just happened to be unnecessary.

“It must be difficult choosing a piece for such an occasion,” Gandalf said before Thorin could reply properly. “I have it in mind to have something commissioned, if you wouldn’t be opposed to working with a composer.”

“We may not work well together,” Thorin cautioned, though his heart was pounding. With the right composer, he could have just the piece he needed.

“Well, you can meet him first, and then decide. You may not have a better opportunity though, if you burn this bridge.” Gandalf’s tone was still fairly friendly, but the warning didn’t lose any of its intended effect. This was his last shot. He shouldn’t waste it by being rude to the composer.

Which was why Thorin found himself agreeing to tea, and hoping he hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

* * *

 

Bilbo wasn’t sure what he had expected when Gandalf had made his cryptic offer, but the tall, grumpy-looking man at Gandalf’s side was definitely not it. His heart pounded for a moment as he wondered if maybe Gandalf was trying to cure his block with a blind date. It had after all been ages since he’d gone out and met anybody, but he couldn’t say he’d been terribly torn up about it. His life was comfortable, and other people have a way of disrupting the pattern of one’s life (and Myrtle did enough of that already!). The man in front of him certainly looked capable of doing that much, though Bilbo grudgingly admitted that he was rather handsome.

Gandalf quickly dispelled those notions. “I have a job for you, though perhaps it is not best discussed on the front stoop,” he said with a raised eyebrow, not introducing his companion.

“Ah, yes, where are my manners? Please, come in,” Bilbo opened the door wider, and set about making tea. He watched the stranger as he did, noting the way the man’s eyes lingered on his mother’s doilies, and never looked at Bilbo for more than a few seconds.

Once the tea was served, Gandalf began. “Thorin here has a bit of a problem,” he admitted. “He is a harpist of not inconsiderable skill, and an important performance is fast approaching. He needs a suitable song to play and perhaps to sing as well, but there are few written with his vocal range in mind. Some of those pieces might suit, but this may be Thorin’s last performance, depending on how it goes. He needs something more than ordinary.”

Bilbo suddenly understood exactly what Gandalf had in mind. “You want me to write something for him,” he surmised. “But you know I’ve been having a block, that’s why I called you up in the first place!”

Thorin looked up sharply at this, turning the full force of his gaze on Bilbo and then Gandalf. He opened his mouth to speak, but Gandalf cut him off.

“No, no, none of that now. Your writing has been aimless so far, but here is a client, and a set due date. I did not say it would not be challenging,” Gandalf amended. “I have every reason to believe it will be. But, it will be a good opportunity for you both.”

Thorin apparently disagreed. “If he does not think he can write me something in time, it would be better not to waste any more,” he said, which unfortunately was how Bilbo knew he was trapped. Thorin’s speaking voice was low and sonorous, so how would his singing voice sound? And to pair that with a harp? What a rich contrast!

To say nothing of that fact that Bilbo was not one to turn back once he had been openly doubted.

“I have an old harp in my music room,” Bilbo told Thorin, ignoring his objection entirely. He knew he’d saved the poor instrument from becoming Myrtle’s scratching post for some reason. “Play and sing something for me, and we’ll see about that.” He was already decided, but whatever Thorin chose to play would give him an idea about what he liked. It would ground Bilbo’s composing, as he already had too many ideas just from hearing Thorin speak a few words.

Gandalf, his part already done, simply sat and drank his tea, a merry twinkle in his eyes.

They adjourned to the music room, and Bilbo was pleased to see that Thorin treated the old harp with a great deal more reverence than he’d seen in reference to the doilies. It hadn’t been tuned in years, but Thorin didn’t complain. Something told Bilbo he would have insisted on tuning it himself anyway.

When Thorin finally found the tone to his liking, he started to play without warning, though tentatively at first. He was still getting to know the instrument, taking it through its paces before seeing how high it could jump, so to speak. He started with gentle plucks on the strings, before tugging at them more aggressively, and it occurred to Bilbo that the old girl was probably going to need new strings before this was over. Like the rest of the harp, they had just sat and decayed.

Apparently satisfied, Thorin’s fingers stilled briefly. Then he started to play again, and this time it was clear that he had chosen his song. It wasn’t a fast song, and the tune was simple, but there was something haunting about it that sent a chill down Bilbo’s spine. It wasn’t the kind of song you expected to hear on a harp. Deep sadness wasn’t an emotion the harp was generally used to convey. It was supposed to be light and airy, not heavy with the weight of expectations. It was, simply put, a wedding instrument, not a funeral one.

But maybe he could use that.

No, there was no maybe about it. He could definitely use it. What made Thorin difficult to hire as a harpist could also be his strength. Bilbo was certain of it, especially when Thorin started humming along to the tune, apparently taking his suggestion to sing rather liberally. He could do this. It was a commission, there was a client, and his client would undoubtedly have opinions, but that was all fine. It wasn’t a jingle, and for now that was enough.

Thorin was less convinced. “Have you written anything I might have heard?” he asked once he was done playing and the harp was set aside.

Bilbo felt his face warm. “Well, I suppose most people have heard the chocolate crisps jingle, and the beefy paper towels one isn’t too bad,” he listed off. At the very least, those were jingles he wasn’t too ashamed of.

Thorin’s glare sharpened. “Gandalf, I’m not sure if you’ve found me the right person for the job,” he said, turning away from Bilbo. “This is a concert, not a-”

“Now, now,” Gandalf interrupted hastily. “It’s true that Bilbo has only found commercial success with, well, commercials, but are you in any position to judge?”

It was Thorin’s turn to redden and look away.

“I do have some finished classical pieces,” Bilbo pointed out a bit petulantly, though ‘finished’ was probably a bit strong. He started rifling through his composing desk, pulling out a sheaf of papers with a flourish. “Try that one. I was rather proud of it, if I do say so, but it didn’t sell.”

Thorin took the sheet music skeptically, periodically trying some of the sections on the harp. When he reached the end of the piece, he handed the sheet music back, shaking his head slowly.

“It’s not a bad piece,” he admitted grudgingly. “But it doesn’t have a point. It just wanders aimlessly.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of wandering,” Bilbo disagreed, snatching back his sheet music. “Sometimes you find something you didn’t expect.”

Thorin snorted. “Well then, let’s see what you find. Don’t worry about writing words. I’ll be back in a week to see your first draft.”

He was gone before Bilbo could register the fact that apparently he’d passed the first test.

* * *

 

Thorin righted the harp with a sigh. “It needs work,” he said, plucking the sheet music off the stand and reaching for a pen. Over Bilbo’s outraged noises, he started marking up the piece, noting which sections needed a second look.

“Of course it does, it’s only a first draft,” Bilbo replied tartly, snatching the sheet music away. “I would prefer it if you would just tell me what you didn’t like.”

“I thought I was,” Thorin observed, eyebrows raised.

“This is my only copy,” Bilbo admitted. “If you mark it up too badly, I won’t know what was there in the first place.”

Thorin’s expression didn’t change. “Very well. Like your other pieces, it wanders too much. Several sections are quite evocative, but it doesn’t build to anything. There’s no conclusion. Just meandering sadness.”

“Not everything needs to be some grand adventure,” Bilbo pointed out irritably.

“This may be my last adventure,” Thorin reminded him curtly. “If it’s going to be a lament, I would like to be lamenting something other than the end of my career.”

“Fair point,” Bilbo allowed. “What do you think you should be lamenting?” He set about transcribing the piece onto new sheets of paper. Then, he started dividing the piece into smaller parts, smaller than movements, so that he could experiment with moving them around to see what worked.

To his credit, Thorin’s expression became thoughtful, as if he was actually considering the question. “Not realizing something until it’s too late,” he answered, the set of his jaw just daring Bilbo to make fun of his choice.

“That’s… a more abstract concept than I expected,” Bilbo admitted. “And also more the purview of pop music, don’t you think? To begin with, how do I express that without words?” He was angling for permission to write lyrics, even if he doubted Thorin would like them. How could he waste Thorin’s singing ability?

“I thought that was your job,” Thorin observed, eyebrows raised infuriatingly again. “I’m sure such an esteemed composer can find a way.” His eyes glittered with mirth.

Bilbo pursed his lips. He was being mocked, in his own home! By a man holding his mother’s harp! For the second time! “We’ll just see about that, won’t we?”

The corners of Thorin’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to smile. “I suppose we will.”

When Thorin left, Bilbo did something that he reserved for times of utmost stress: he smoked.

* * *

 

Reviews of the second draft had gone much the same as the first, though Thorin grudgingly admitted that, “there was some improvement,” so Bilbo once again sat in front of the piano with stacks of paper in hand. For some reason, Thorin hadn’t made any attempt to leave, perhaps waiting to see if another attempt could be made before disappearing again. The silence, interrupted only by Bilbo trying out short sections on the piano and the scratch of Myrtle’s claws on the music room door, was getting awkward. But Bilbo had been raised right, so he ventured to make some conversation, much as he disliked idle chatter while he was working.

“So Thorin, how did you end up playing the harp?” Bilbo asked in what he hoped was a conversational tone. “It’s not an instrument you see many men playing. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with a man playing it, many just seem to think their masculinity is somehow threatened by it. Obviously you don’t.” Bilbo closed his mouth abruptly. Rambling wasn’t conversation, and he couldn’t see Thorin from where he was sitting, so he didn’t know if he’d offended the man. Better to quit while he was ahead.

“My grandfather made instruments,” Thorin admitted after a moment. “I always thought his harps were the most beautiful. Eventually, I convinced him to teach me to play.” He sounded edgy, almost defensive. But there was nothing to mock about that short recital. There was an innocent honesty to it, which was something Bilbo just hadn’t expected.

“Who was your grandfather? I might have heard of him,” Bilbo offered, blowing eraser shavings off the music and glancing up at Thorin.

“Thror Durinson,” Thorin told him, his expression still guarded.

“Really?” Bilbo exclaimed. “He made that harp you’re holding now! My mother was a fan of his work; I think we have a cello of his lying around here somewhere.”

“I thought it looked familiar,” Thorin admitted, running a hand along the richly colored wood. The lines of his face softened, and Bilbo’s breath caught. What a trial for a bachelor of his age, working for a difficult, handsome client!

Bilbo wrote in embarrassed silence for a moment, hoping to hide his newly red face, when Thorin spoke again.

“Why do you compose?” He asked it in the same tone Bilbo had used, without any of the doubt or accusation he had bandied about before. Polite conversation. Amazing.

“I don’t have a key childhood memory or anything else to spur me on like you,” Bilbo admitted. “I just always liked it, even if the kind of music I like writing is different from the kind that pays the bills.”

Thorin gave a snort of laughter, and Bilbo set down his pencil to face him.

“What?” he demanded, his face reddening.

“I think you like your jingles too,” Thorin replied. “You just don’t like to admit it.”

“They’re not very cultured,” Bilbo admitted. “Not something you can tell people you wrote without them looking at you sideways.”

“Perhaps you’re just spending time with the wrong people.”

* * *

 

“Better,” Thorin declared, setting down the latest draft to try playing it. He even smiled a little to himself as he tried it out, sending warmth surging through Bilbo.

Something about their last conversation had made the song easier to write. He was always afraid when he sat down to work on a song that it would sound too much like a ditty or a jingle, when his goal was something more high brow. It shouldn’t have been an issue writing a dirge, but seeing the end result, he knew that worry had been stifling his creativity. Knowing that Thorin wouldn’t judge him for what else he wrote freed him to write how he wanted.

He was close. Listening to the song brought to life by Thorin’s surprisingly nimble fingers, he was certain of it. There were a few places that could use improvement, he could hear that now. But none of it felt insurmountable anymore.

Thorin picked up the sheet music again, and oddly enough, he sniffed it.

“You smoke?” he asked, his tone noticeably lacking the usual disapproval or disgust that Bilbo had come to expect from casual acquaintances. Bilbo had in fact had a brief smoke before Thorin arrived, to settle the jitters that Thorin inevitably caused. It was becoming more common lately, and much as he might regret it, it was hard to stop.

“Occasionally,” Bilbo replied evasively. “Only outside. I hadn’t realized it had made it onto the sheet music.”

Thorin sniffed the paper again. “It didn’t,” he realized, suddenly looking away. As Bilbo watched, he saw Thorin’s face redden slightly and wondered what that could mean.

“I hope the smell isn’t bothering you,” Bilbo said. “I can freshen the room up if you like.”

“It’s fine,” Thorin insisted, though he didn’t look directly at Bilbo again during that consultation.

It made Bilbo curious, more curious than he felt he had a right to be. Maybe Thorin had mixed feelings about the smell. Bilbo’s own father had been taken by throat cancer, but the smell was still familiar and comforting. Even knowing that the habit had ended his father’s life, he would smoke to remember him. It could well be that Thorin had a similar contradiction in his life, and Bilbo had just reminded him of it.

In fact, he got his answer sooner than he had expected.

Their fourth consultation was a week before the intended performance, and Bilbo was very concerned that his piece wouldn’t pass muster. What they would do then, he couldn’t guess. As a professional, Thorin could probably learn a replacement piece in that time, but Gandalf was counting on him!

Thorin smiled. Not a suggestion of a smile, not a slight upturning of the lips. This was a real, genuine smile, and it never left his face while he played the final draft of the piece, accompanied by his rich humming. His smile felt rather inappropriate in point of fact, considering that it was supposed to be a dirge, but Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to be bothered. Thorin was smiling and playing his music, and he couldn’t look away, couldn’t even move a muscle until it was finished.

When Thorin played the last note, letting it resonate in the air for a moment, he finally looked away from the music, and turned his brilliant smile directly on Bilbo. It was as paralyzing as the way he played the harp, like staring down a dangerous predator, or looking at the sun. Thorin seemed to recover himself, the intensity of his smile dimming down to more manageable levels, but he didn’t stop.

“You’ve done well,” Thorin admitted, pushing the harp forward gently so that it no longer rested on his shoulder. “If this is the last song I play publically, I won’t have any regrets.”

The words stung, though he knew that wasn’t Thorin’s intention. “Don’t say that,” Bilbo scolded him. “I didn’t write this intending for it to be your swan song.”

“Perhaps you should have,” Thorin replied, still smiling. “It is a lament about not realizing something until it was too late, after all.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s the end,” Bilbo argued hotly. “Maybe the lamenter only thinks it’s too late. We’re not always right about things like that, especially where they concern other people.”

There was a flash of something in Thorin’s eyes, but it was gone before Bilbo could make anything of it. “Still, I’ll be honored to play it. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

Bilbo turned toward him to offer some protest, and their knees bumped together. Thorin was closer than he’d realized, and it sent a jolt through him. Now that the grumpy harpist was smiling and offering apologies, it really was hard to ignore his looks. Not that it had been easy before, but smiling really did wonders for Thorin’s-

His thoughts came to a clattering halt as Thorin moved even closer, their legs sliding against each others, his torso angled toward Bilbo. Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe it was just an unconscious movement. Regardless, Bilbo was startled, and nearly thrust himself out of his chair and onto the floor in his surprise. Too close, he told himself, his heart pounding in his chest. That face was too close, and he had been a recluse too long.

Thorin’s expression closed off immediately, and Bilbo regretted his hasty retreat. He’d reacted so childishly to a bit of physical contact, and now Thorin assumed that his presence was unwanted. Not true at all! Maybe a little in the beginning, but even then not really. It had just been so long since he’d found himself in a situation like this one, but how could he say that?

Thorin’s abrupt farewell of, “Thank you again for the piece,” said with the stiffness of a man whose pride has been badly bruised felt like a blow to the chest, but thankfully he wasn’t called on to find some civil reply. Thorin left without another word, leaving Bilbo alone in his silent house to reach for the half-empty package of cigarettes.

“Well,” he muttered to Myrtle as he struggled to light a cigarette, “Mother always did say I really knew how to pick them.”

As always, she just meowed morosely.

* * *

 

The week before the performance passed in a flash, with no new complaints from Thorin surfacing. There was no word from him at all, in fact. Bilbo wasn’t sure what he had expected. He’d been paid (by Gandalf), the piece had been delivered to the client, and presumably all was well. It was normal once both sides of the contract had been satisfied for both parties to, well, part ways. It was normal, but after the way things had ended, he hadn’t expected normal. He kept looking back on that moment and wishing that he hadn’t been so surprised. But how else could he have been? Thorin’s behavior toward him had been frosty from the first, and the thaw had come so suddenly that he hadn’t known what to make of it, even if he did find the harpist pleasant enough (and handsome enough) when he wasn’t being an ass.

But Thorin made no attempt to contact him, and Bilbo didn’t have any way of contacting him to try and clear up his side of things. So, until Gandalf arrived for tea the day before the performance, he’d been doing his level best to just forget about it. He’d written a beautiful piece and people were going to hear it. That was enough. Certainly more important than a little crush. At his age!

“Something told me that you wouldn’t have tickets to Thorin’s performance tomorrow night,” Gandalf observed with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “It’s a rare opportunity to see one of your works played in front of a large audience, so I took a bit of a liberty.” He slid a ticket across the table.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly-” Bilbo began, only to be interrupted.

“I insist,” Gandalf replied firmly. “It’s important for you to see how an audience reacts to something you’ve written, especially after all of the trouble Thorin must have put you to. No matter what happens, it will be a learning experience, I think.”

Bilbo pursed his lips, but took the ticket. “There’s no way out of this, is there?”

“None,” Gandalf confirmed. “I will pick you up at 6 o’clock, just to be sure. Though I can’t say I understand your hesitation. Isn’t this what you always wanted, to see your music in the hands of a skillful performer?”

“It is,” Bilbo rushed to assure him. “I’m just… nervous,” he lied. “I feel more distance from the jingles. This means more to me.”

Gandalf looked like he didn’t quite believe that, but he didn’t press. “I imagine so! Just remember, if no one likes the song, they will imagine that Thorin just played it poorly. It won’t reflect badly on you.”

Somehow that wasn’t the least bit comforting.

Then, as if in no time at all, it was the night of the performance. Even knowing that he probably wouldn’t get the chance to talk to Thorin anyway, he fussed over his suit and his hair, never quite satisfied with how they turned out. It had been a while since he’d really gone out, he argued. There was no harm in making sure that he was presentable, especially in light of the amount of cat hair that regularly coated him. He absolutely wasn’t trying to attract Thorin’s attention.

Gandalf was punctual for once, and so with his heart pounding, Bilbo set off for the concert. It was strange realizing how much of a shut in he’d been lately, as he saw parts of the city that he hadn’t for quite some time. Reaching the concert hall, it felt like it had been years since he’d been there last. Quite shameful for someone who had struggled for years to compose classically. Maybe Gandalf had been right after all. This had been what he needed.

“As the arranger of this concert, shouldn’t you have been here early?” Bilbo asked Gandalf drily.

“Nonsense,” Gandalf insisted. “My staff are quite capable, I assure you. Most of my work is done beforehand. If they need me now, I’ve failed.”

It was the same with composing, Bilbo realized, and left Gandalf’s general lack of punctuality alone. If Thorin needed his help now, well, he hadn’t done a very good job writing the piece, now had he?

“Now, the question is, when Thorin and the piece are announced, would you like to be recognized?” Gandalf asked as he whisked Bilbo off to his seat. “We can of course just mention you as the composer without pointing out that you are in the audience, but there’s nothing wrong with a little notoriety, no?”

There was a quiet, vicious voice in his head that said Thorin might choke if he knew he was watching. But then again, why shouldn’t he hear what could be the only performance of this piece? He had every right to be there and get attention for something other than jingles.

“Why not?” Bilbo decided with a shrug. “When will I have a chance like this again?”

“Many more times, unless I miss my guess,” Gandalf assured him. “I think this is only the beginning for you.”

Bilbo swallowed a retort about being past his prime already. Why not let himself hope Gandalf was right about this too?

His seat was in the center orchestra, just far enough away from the stage to be able to see it without having to strain. It was also the place in the hall with the most perfect acoustics, and though Gandalf had to leave him, at least he’d left him in the best possible situation. If only it were possible to have a private box in the middle of the concert hall, it really would be perfect, but he knew that was just his inner hermit talking. He could make small talk when he had to. It had just been a while.

All too soon, his ability was tested. Ten minutes before the concert was due to start, an imposing woman appeared at the end of the row with two young men who were obviously her sons in her wake. Two other men followed with slightly less vigor, but it was the woman who claimed the seat next to Bilbo.

“I told you we didn’t need to rush,” one of her sons complained as they took their seats.

“And I told you that if we were late, I would never be able to look Thorin in the eye again,” she snapped. “You brats especially.”

Bilbo started reflexively at the reference to his grumpy harpist. It was only a slight movement, but as their seats were connected, the woman must have felt it. She turned to look at him, recognition dawning in her eyes.

“Why, you must be Mr. Baggins!” she exclaimed, causing her companions to look over as well. “The composer who wrote the piece Thorin’s playing tonight,” she added for the benefit of her confused companions.

“That’s right,” Bilbo agreed hesitantly. “How do you-”

“Oh, where are my manners? I’m Dís, Thorin’s sister,” she told him, offering her hand, which he shook. “These young louts are my boys, Fili and Kili, and the two gentlemen trying to avoid trouble are my brother Frerin and my husband Vili.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bilbo said, though he felt a bit overwhelmed. Dís had a commanding air that reminded him a bit of Thorin, though she was obviously more naturally friendly.

“The pleasure is mine, I assure you,” Dís insisted. “It must have been hard for you, working with my brother. The two of us are perfectionists at heart, and he never did learn to soften his words.”

“Not that you did either,” Frerin called from down the row with a cheery wave.

Dís pointedly ignored him.

“It was a little challenging at first, but eventually I realized that if he didn’t think I could do it, he wouldn’t keep coming back,” Bilbo admitted. “And in the end he seemed quite pleased with it, so I just hope it’s enough.”

“Really?” Dís’ eyes narrowed slightly, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “He wouldn’t say anything about it when he came back the last time. He wouldn’t say anything at all, actually, just locked himself in the workshop until dinnertime.”

It was strange to imagine Thorin living with his family. It would be loud and energetic, but then Thorin in a good mood was probably up to it. He just hadn’t seen much of that Thorin.

“We had a bit of a misunderstanding,” Bilbo admitted, fidgeting absently.

“That sounds about right,” Dís agreed with a nod, though she had a sly look in her eyes. “I hope you have the chance to correct it after the performance.”

The lights flickered, their cue to quiet down, and soon the orchestra’s tuning note sailed out over the audience. Bilbo felt his nervous breathing settle into a calmer rhythm in response. This was where he was meant to be, and his body responded to that. How had he been able to stay away for so long?

The orchestra played their first piece without preamble, a quick bit of Mozart. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel the irony in such a choice, at least for him. Gandalf had set the program, and he knew of Bilbo’s feelings about the young, dead, composer. But he could appreciate the music with a little less bitterness now. He’d finished a piece, and someone had wanted to play it. That was all he really needed.

Then the piece ended, and the audience applauded, and the conductor bowed far more than he really needed to. When the applause faded, he signaled to someone offstage, and Bilbo’s breath caught. Thorin strode out onto the stage, looking much the same as he had that first day on Bilbo’s doorstep. He was wearing a suit now, his dark hair and beard carefully groomed, but his facial expression and body language were the same. Bilbo understood it now: Thorin was uncomfortable, nervous even. Anyone might be under the circumstances. In Thorin it was easy to mistake it for anger or pride, and pride probably did have something to do with it. But he was adrift up there, forced to stand still and be introduced.

Even though the stage lights should have made it impossible for Thorin to see any of the audience, their eyes met. Bilbo saw Thorin’s adam’s apple bob in his throat, and he knew that the harpist really had seen him. Then Thorin was walking off to await his performance, and Bilbo released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Would it kill him to smile a little?” Dís muttered. “He looks ready for the execution block.”

“You know our brother,” Frerin replied. “It just might.”

The intervening pieces were harder to enjoy now that he’d seen Thorin. It was impossible not to think about the upcoming performance, and every song until then felt like it had been written purely to nettle him. What had those old composers been thinking, writing such pointlessly long songs? They would lose the audience at that rate!

His hands were twitching from the effort it took to avoid digging his nails into his palms by the time the orchestra retired to begin their complicated setup. Thorin emerged to less applause than he deserved, a stage hand wheeling his harp to the center of the stage. Bilbo had never seen Thorin’s usual instrument before, but even from far away he could tell it was a Thror, like his mother’s.

But Thorin didn’t immediately sit down to play. Instead, Gandalf appeared at his side to introduce the piece, and Bilbo sank deeper into his chair. He had agreed to this, he reminded himself. He was going to have to live with the consequences.

Bilbo could feel a spotlight on him, could see Gandalf’s mouth moving as he introduced them both, but all he could really focus on was Thorin staring out at the audience.

“This piece was intended as a lament,” Thorin began, his clear voice carrying easily through the concert hall. “The lament of someone who has realized something too late, and longs to return to a time before their mistakes were already made.”

“But-!” Bilbo was speaking before he realized it, and Thorin stopped immediately. There were some confused murmurs, but one of Gandalf’s staff produced a microphone for him almost immediately.

“Sorry for the interruption,” Bilbo began, feeling his face warm. Thorin was staring right at him, his eyes practically boring a hole in his head. “Of course Th- Mr. Durinson is right, that’s what he asked me to write for him. But, if you listen carefully, you might hear the reply of someone the lamenter wronged, suggesting that it might not be too late after all.”

There was a flash of something in Thorin’s eyes, and he inclined his head, allowing for the superior understanding of the composer. Maybe he’d been about to say that anyway, and Bilbo had just interrupted him. At least he didn’t look terribly offended.

There was a smattering of applause, and then he sat down to play. Everything else faded away. Only Thorin and the harp mattered, and the music flowing from his callused fingers. Thorin was singing, really singing, not just humming as he had before. He had written words for the song, in a language Bilbo didn’t know and didn’t need to know. It wasn’t hard to guess at the meaning. No wonder he’d told Bilbo not to worry about the words.

As the song progressed, Bilbo realized what Thorin had done by writing words. The lament continued in his voice, but the harp carried a note of hope, which of course was what Bilbo had been referring to. Though the two instruments of voice and harp had started together, now they were divergent, creating almost a call-and-response effect.

Thorin had made the piece into a duet, and was playing both parts. Was it a duet between the two people involved, or a duet representing the warring parts of the lamenters thoughts? It could be both, or either, and it didn’t matter.

Had he really written this? It sounded so different on his mother’s old harp, in the music room, with Thorin making disapproving sounds and marking up his drafts. Part of that was acoustics, but there was more to it than that. Thorin had brought his piece to life in a way that none of his earlier work had been. It had been written with him in mind, true, but Bilbo had never imagined an effect like this. Was it always like this when someone played something you wrote that you actually cared about? Or was it just because it was Thorin?

The concluding note trailed off into dead silence, and for a moment Bilbo wondered if only he had liked it. But then a single person began to clap, and the floodgates opened. The applause was nearly deafening, but Bilbo stood and clapped as well, until his hands were stinging and numb.

It was only as the applause began to fade, and a definitely red Thorin took his bow and left the stage that Bilbo realized that Dís was staring at him.

“He has never been that good before,” she said bluntly, pushing Bilbo toward the aisle. “Go see him. I’m sure he’ll be glad.”

“It’s not intermission yet,” Bilbo protested weakly as Thorin’s pushy relatives pulled him along.

“Go,” Dís insisted with a final shove, and Bilbo went.

He had no idea where a performer would be housed between performances, but Gandalf’s staff apparently had their orders. The second he emerged from the hall, he was whisked away by a crisply dressed usher, and deposited in front of a dressing room labeled “Durinson”.

Tentatively, Bilbo knocked.

“Go away Dís.” Came through the door, muffled and grumpy and undeniably Thorin.

“Last I checked, I’m not your sister,” Bilbo replied, nearly jumping back at how quickly the door opened.

Thorin stood holding the doorknob, his mouth parted and his eyes wide with disbelief. In the short time since he’d been onstage, he’d discarded his jacket and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, and Bilbo had to fight the urge to stare. One of them needed to say something instead of just staring.

“Would you like to get coffee sometime, or maybe tea?” Bilbo asked, looking everywhere but at Thorin. “Oh, but you’ve had tea at my place several times-”

“Yes,” Thorin interrupted. “Would you like to come in? I was about to have tea, for my throat.”

“I didn’t mean right this second,” Bilbo objected weakly, but he was already stepping inside, their song echoing in his head.


End file.
